Pimp
by Your Angel of Music
Summary: Whichever way you look at it, "whore" is the only word which seems to fit. Pre-Cyberwoman.


**Title:** Pimp  
**Characters:** Ianto Jones, Jack Harkness, Lisa Hallett  
**Pairings:** Jack/Ianto, Ianto/Lisa  
**Spoilers:** 1x04: Cyberwoman  
**Rating:** Adult – sexual situations and dark themes  
**Summary:** Whichever way you look at it, "whore" is the only word which seems to fit.

**A/N:** I don't know where this came from. I was originally planning on writing some fluffy smut, so I started with the imagery of Ianto going down on Jack...and, suddenly, the image of Lisa instructing Ianto on how to please Jack sprung into my mind and wouldn't go away. So here it is.

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**Pimp**

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Nails curl through his hair, catching at each strand and tugging it away from the roots.

A part of him wants to slap that hand away, to move it down onto his shoulder or perhaps the back of his neck, urging it to pull on clothing rather than living tissue. A groan catches in his throat at another sharp tug, revelling as that other part, that deeper, darker part that he doesn't really want to acknowledge, luxuriates in the screeching membranes of his skin.

It is not, after all, meant to be enjoyed. It is times like these, with pain smarting through every nerve of his body, that make up for all those other times; eyes closed, fingers gripping tight as skilled hands fisted at his cock, grunts of pleasure that shouldn't be felt. Always fighting against the feeling and never quite getting there. Pain is good, because it focuses the mind on the reality, rather than the sensation. He can't afford to get carried away in the sensation – to actually admit that, sometimes, he enjoys it.

Because whores aren't meant to enjoy it.

Not really.

At least, he doesn't think so.

His jaw aches too, however much he shifts his angle; however much he pulls back and uses his hand to take some of that pressure; that was what she said, after all, what she told him would work. He forms a fist, as per her instructions, leaving only the tip to concentrate on, giving himself leverage, room, flexibility without choking. Each order rings in his mind in a reassuring list, scrolling through like tickertape – lips, mouth, tongue, this way, that way, flick, suck, work…

The effort of constant movement fires a dull pain through from his mouth to just below his ear, but he furrows his brow and rejects it. Pain is good, yes, when it focuses, but not when it distracts. It's making him want to pull away, but he can't do that. If he thinks of like that, of this being an invasion, his body will fight against it.

Sometimes everything is too big, too fast, too hard, too rough…

He told her that he couldn't do it; hand resting against the chocolate skin protruding from that silvery metal, fingertips stroking along the exposed length of her arm. He couldn't do it because he wouldn't do that to her – he loved her, he couldn't, not with anyone else. Not mentioning that he just…well…_couldn't_. For himself, not for her.

_You can_.

And she smiled, and in that smile was every single word of reassurance that would mean so little if vocalised. He believes her. It's all for her. As his jaw roars with pain against the intruder, he remembers what this is for and he swallows it whole. The taste of success is the sweetest taste of all – the taste of another day with her alive and waiting for him.

That's what he tells himself every single day.

She picked his outfit, the night that he'd begun worming his way into Torchwood – and into the Captain's bed. Scanning him with her soft eyes; that reassuring, knowing face resting upon his own and calming his nerves. The belt – she'd liked the belt.

_Wear that_ – her eyes had lit up in that way he loved so much – _he won't be able to resist_.

And so he hadn't. Not quite.

It crosses his mind sometimes, as he lets his hands wander freely over the body of his boss – that she is perhaps the best instructor he could have. She knows how to make a man beg for her – _he _knows what she could do – no, _can_ do; could do again, some day - as he is that man who has begged so many times, begged for her love and her touch. And she had given it to him. Still would if she could. It was never just fucking with her; it was always something more, something deeper than all those girls he has screwed against the wall of the local corner shop in the middle of the night.

It was something that was - _is_ - inherent within her, and that's what he needs from her. That is what she has passed on. He needs to be memorable if the Captain is going to keep returning, to keep coming after what it was that he offers. More than sex, something better than sex; companionship, maybe, or the unspoken promise of something more.

_God…Ianto…_

Yes, this was right.

He keeps up the insistent pressure of his tongue even as numbness begins to sing through the muscle; his lips wrap over his teeth to cover the sharp points, protecting the sensitive flesh that hovers between them. That was one thing she specified above all, to cover his teeth – if he causes the Captain pain, she tells him, maybe he won't be willing to keep this affair going. And without this, what do they have?

Working his hand, he attempts to steady the rapid thrusts, to protect his dangerously-simmering gag reflex. The figure above him groans. _Whore_. He doesn't say it, but Ianto hears it anyway.

Whichever way you look at it, "whore" is the only word which seems to fit.

Occasionally he hates her as he sits beside her, quietly fuming as his lips sting, as feeling returns to his tongue, as his body simmers down from the orgasm that he will never, ever admit that he's had. And she asks how it went, what he has done, taking careful stock of everything he recounts before building her pupil up further.

Telling him how to make the Captain enjoy it; how to give him what he wants; to pleasure him and leave him begging for more. Like a pimp instructing her whore on how to please a client; teaching and bequeathing knowledge so that he will come back, pockets bulging with the rewards of his work.

And he always comes back with pockets bulging.

For her.

He'll never disappoint her, not ever. He loves her. This was all for her, after all – he'd do it a thousand times for her.

There is a slight pulse beneath his throbbing lips before hips snap forward; bluntness hits the back of his throat and he swallows hard, fighting against the reflex that threatens him in waves.

Without this, there is nothing.

Fingers tighten in his hair for a brief second before loosening, a sigh creeping forth from somewhere above as the hardness in Ianto's mouth begins to soften. The figure it is attached to (sometimes it was easier to see him as just an appendage, nothing more than an object to service) slumps against the wall, limp flesh falling from between swollen lips as that hand rests - finally, too late now – at the back of Ianto's neck.

_You're good_ – a chuckle – _someone's taught you well_.

Ianto just smiles and pulls his crumpled suit down, straightening the creases as he raises himself on wobbly, aching legs. He's not sure that his knees, scuffed against the grimy floor, will support him – luckily, they do.

_I'm a fast learner, sir…_

Jack smiles, trust gathering in the humour of his eyes.

He doesn't realise that he's just paid a whore.

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Fin

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Thank you for reading.

I know it's...different...to my normal offerings, so I'd be thrilled to know what you think of it.


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